


Blues and Greens and Silvers

by BonesAndScales



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Hannibal Loves Will, Hannibal is smitten, M/M, More murders, So many murders, The bodies just keep piling on, Will Loves Hannibal, Will goes with the flow, Will the rude, Will the sass machine, body count getting out of hand, half cannibalism maybe, is it cannibalism when a merman eats a man, merman au, merman!will, murders, someone stop these two madmen, that does not get eaten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-05-21 23:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14924483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonesAndScales/pseuds/BonesAndScales
Summary: And then two eyes the colour of the sea pin his, glowering at him.“Dude. Kindly pick up your trash and get the fuck out of here. Thank you.”The man leaves as quickly as he came, diving back into the sea. Hannibal is frozen in place.Merman Will AU. Hannibal finds a rude little merman in the Chesapeake Bay. He is smitten.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another silly pile of fluff. With murders.
> 
>  **Warnings** : Murders. Blood. Violence. Hannibal.
> 
> An uncomfortable amount of PDA.
> 
> Enjoy!

Not a single sunbeam makes it through the thick fog. Which suits Hannibal just fine. It will dissuade any early riser from wandering around the shore. And the ones who do brave the fog will not be able to see beyond three feet.

Hannibal does not need to see beyond three feet. His nose easily makes up for an impaired vision.

He drags the body over the slippery rocks of the shore. It is considerably lighter than the last body he disposed of here. Not surprising, considering that this one is missing its two legs and a few organs. And five litres of blood.

Some bits of skin torn by the sharpest rocks remain stuck in the little crevices, but Hannibal does not worry too much about those. The waves will wash them away soon enough, and the seagulls will see to any remaining bits.

He makes it to the edge and a particularly strong wave sprays salt water on his pant legs. He heaves the body up and unceremoniously tosses it in the water. He does not see it break the surface but he hears the quiet splash over the cries of the seagulls. Satisfied, he turns on his heels to head back to his car. Franklyn has taken to arriving early these days. It would be rude of Hannibal to make it to his own office after his patient.

Hannibal has barely taken two steps when he hears another splash. He turns around. The body is back on the edge, dripping on the rocks. Hannibal stares at it, inhales deeply once. The only smells around him are that of the sea salt, algae and the scent of decay coming from the body. He is alone. Another wave crashes on the rocks, momentarily submerging the body.

Hannibal walks back to the body, and pushes it back over the edge with his foot. He crouches down, eyes fixed on the surface of the water roiling back and forth against the shore. Nothing happens. He stands and turns back again to leave.

Another splash. He whips around. The body is back on the shore.

Hannibal slips his scalpel out of his sleeve, gripping it tightly in his right hand. He walks back to the body slowly. He places his foot on the torso, waits a second, and pushes it over the edge again. It sends another spray of water when it breaks the surface.

Hannibal jumps back when the body is flung back on the shore. He takes three steps back, almost slipping off the rocks.

Two hands break out of the water, gripping the nearest rocks and soon the upper body of a man emerges from the water propelled by two muscular arms, adorned with intricate glistening patterns and arabesques. Hannibal stares wide eyed as the man shakes his head from side to side to remove the excess water, his brown curls bouncing around his face. And then two eyes the colour of the stormy sea pin his, glowering at him.

“Dude. Kindly pick up your trash and get the fuck out of here. Thank you.”

The man leaves as quickly as he came, diving back into the sea. Hannibal is frozen in place. Another wave strikes the shore and floods it. The water slides back into the sea through the crevices between the rocks. A seagull lands on the torso of the corpse and starts picking at the stitches on the chest, tearing tiny bits of flesh. It takes off with a piercing shriek when Hannibal approaches it.

Hannibal puts the scalpel back inside his sleeve, grabs the body and hurls it off the shore again. The body is flung right back at him and the man emerges again.

“Goddammit! The fuck is your prob—”

Hannibal grips his throat and pulls him out of the water. His eyes widen when instead of legs, it is a fish tail that follows up.

Hannibal just caught a merman.

His amazement is short lived when the merman in question hisses sharply at him and plants his claws in Hannibal’s arms to tear himself free. Hannibal lets go of the merman’s throat and stumbles backwards. The merman falls on the ground and immediately starts scrambling back towards the sea. Hannibal lunges forward, grabs the end of his tail and pulls him back.

The merman thrashes about, twisting his tail in Hannibal’s hands. The strength of the tail combined with the water and the slime on the scales eventually make Hannibal relent, slipping on the puddles of water and falling on the rocks. Instead of jumping into the sea, the merman jumps on Hannibal, teeth and claws out. Hannibal catches his wrists just before they can rip his face off. But the merman lunges forward, savagely ripping mouthfuls of his collar before those teeth finally sink into the flesh of his shoulder, clamping down until they draws blood.

Hannibal lets go of one of the merman’s wrists and it immediately wraps around his throat, crushing his windpipe. The assault stops abruptly when the merman gives a high pitched cry. He looks down at the scalpel embedded on the side of his chest, piercing through his left lung.

The merman tries to dive back into the water but Hannibal pulls him down and reverses their position. He pulls the scalpel out of his chest and holds it against his throat instead. The merman’s hands shoot out to wraps around Hannibal’s throat again, the sharp claw of his thumb pressing on his carotid, ready to tear through it. They come to a standstill.

The merman’s breaths comes out in quick, shallow hisses. Blood drips out of Hannibal’s shoulder, falling on the merman’s chest, smearing the beautiful patterns running down his skin.

Hannibal watches in fascination as the wound on his chest slowly closes on its own. The merman no longer struggles to breath and a triumphant smile graces his lips. Hannibal blinks once, twice. He stares at the spot where the wound was, the flesh now smooth and unblemished as though nothing happened to it.

“I can’t kill you,” Hannibal says as a matter of fact.

“You got it,” the merman replies, pressing the claw harder against Hannibal’s pulsing carotid.

“I see,” Hannibal drinks in the sight of those eyes, shimmering with ferocity and anticipation, “And what will you do with my corpse?”

“I’ll eat it,” he says, a radiant smile stretching his lips.

The corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitches. “The other corpse too?”

“Nah, that one doesn’t look very fresh. The seagulls can have it.”

Hannibal feels the tip of the claw digging into his skin each time he swallows. “And does my executioner have a name?”

“He does,” the merman says, his voice now tinted with amusement.

“May I ask for it?”

“You may.” He then opens his mouth and a string of short, melodious bell-like sounds resound around them. He smirks, knowing Hannibal won’t be able to say it himself. “But you can call me Will."

“Will.” Hannibal’s eyes drift from Will’s eyes to his lips, to his neck, to his torso. It follows the elegant lines curling on his skin, a glimmering palette of greens, silvers and blues, striking against his pale skin. “What an exquisite creature you are.”

Will snorts. “Flirting to save your life? That only works in soap operas and crappy blockbusters.”

“I’m only stating the truth,” Hannibal says, his eyes continuing their path down Will’s body, until they reach his belly, unable to go further down because of their position, “May I see your tail?”

At this Will gives a short laugh, half in disbelief and half in amusement. “Are you serious? I’m about to kill you and you want to see my tail?”

“Would you prefer I beg for my life?”

“That’s what humans usually do,” Will says slowly.

A wave hits the shore and covers them in water. Hannibal’s wound tingles under the spray of salt. “Pity,” he says, “to waste one’s final moment in futile flailing and vain hope.”

“Survival instinct. If posturing doesn’t work, you go for submission.”

“Would it work against you?”

“Who knows?” Will lifts an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling with interest. “Mercy isn’t exclusively reserved to humans.”

“Neither is cruelty.”

Will tilts his head, unconcerned by the blade pressed against his neck. “Am I being cruel in giving someone a chance to save their life?”

“You are, if you have no intention of actually sparing them.”

“Now, now,” Will says, slowly pressing on Hannibal’s throat, forcing him to lift his head slightly, “I don’t think it’d be wise for you to provoke me, considering your current position. I suggest you weight your words carefully.”

“I apologize,” Hannibal says, his voice rough because of the fingers hindering his breathing, “I had no intention of antagonising you.”

Will gives him an imperious look, lifting his chin. “See? You’re doing that survival thing just fine.”

“And you’re doing that cruelty thing just fine.”

At this, Will makes a deep rumbling sound within his throat, much like a purr. He smiles mischievously at Hannibal. “Does my victim have a name?”

Hannibal mirrors his smile. “He does.”

“And may I ask for it?”

“You may.” Hannibal inclines his head sightly, feeling the claw digging into his pulse, “Dr. Hannibal Lecter.”

Will does that purring sound again. Hannibal can feel the vibrations through the scalpel.

“Well, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, you just earned my mercy,” Will says, letting go of Hannibal’s throat, his arms falling to rest beside his head, “You may look at my tail.”

Hannibal removes the scalpel from Will’s throat, pushes it back inside his sleeve, and presses his hand to the wound on his shoulder, trying to stop the flow of blood. He moves aside, sitting on the cold, wet rocks, and finally looks at Will’s tail.

It lays idly on the rocks, sometimes twitching and curling at the end. Much like the markings on Will’s body, the scales are an elegant palette of blues and greens and silvers, so dark at certain angles it almost looks black. The scales shimmer with each little movement of the tail, despite the fog and lack of sunlight. The fins are a lighter shade of silver, almost white, and are lined with dark blue fringes. Hannibal would love to see it in proper lighting. How much more vivid the colours would look.

He extends his hand towards what he believes is a pelvic fin. The tail moves a few centimetres away, just out of his reach. Hannibal looks back at Will’s face. The merman is looking intently at him, still lying on his back, head tilted to the side. His hands are resting on his belly, his claws retracted and no longer visible.

“I said look.”

“May I touch your tail?” Hannibal asks, his hand still hovering over his tail.

Will smiles, looking awfully pleased. “You may.” And he pushes his tail into Hannibal’s hand.

The scales are slick and cold. Colder than the skin of Will’s neck, and way colder than the water around them. Hannibal slowly slides his hands up and down the tail, before moving to take a fin in hand, rubbing his thumb against the sturdy, slippery texture of the fin. Will makes a purring sound again.

Then Hannibal slowly moves his hand up, towards Will’s belly. Just before his fingers reach the warm skin, the tail flicks up, spraying water onto him and his wound.

“That’s not my tail,” he says propping himself up on his elbows.

Hannibal retracts his hand, his arm is starting to feel numb with the blood loss. “Are you going to kill me now?”

“I said you earned my mercy, didn’t I?”

And with this, the merman rolls on his stomach and dives back into the sea. Hannibal is left alone on the shore. Now, he can’t go to his office like this. He will have to postpone his morning appointments.

 

* * *

 

“I thought you’d come back.”

Will is propped up on the rock closest to the water, his head resting on his crossed arms, the rest of his body hidden underwater. Hannibal goes to crouch in front of him setting his umbrella aside, ignoring the rain drenching his clothes. Nothing will prevent him from getting soaked so close to the sea anyway.

“Isn’t it dangerous for you to come here?”

“Fog and rain chase humans away. Well, most humans,” Will says, shrugging. “You’re the only one in danger here,” he adds, his eyes glinting with a malicious glee.

“What if I decide to come back with other people? Humans are pack hunters.”

“They are. You’re not.”

Hannibal smiles at him, delighted, and sits down on the rock beside Will’s arms. His slacks are already soaked with the rain anyway. “Are there others like you?”

Will nods his head once. “There are.”

“And why aren’t you with them?”

“I’m also an isolated case in a pack hunting species.”

“You don’t have friends?”

“And neither do you.”

“I don’t?”

“You don’t,” Will grins at him, amused by their little back and forths.

“And how can you be so sure of that?” Hannibal asks, tilting his head.

“That storm you hide inside. People fear storms,” Will looks down at Hannibal’s lap. He traces the soft fabric of his pant leg with a finger, drawing little patterns much like the ones on his skin. “You don’t want them to see yours. Difficult to build a friendship without honesty.”

Hannibal considers him a moment, his eyes skating over his soft features, so contradictory with his predatory nature. “What a beautiful mind you have.”

“Thanks, I use it to fend people off,” Will says, running a hand through his hair to push back the strands sticking to his forehead, “That doesn’t seem to work too well with you.”

“No, indeed.” Hannibal wants to touch those curls. “May I touch your hair?”

Will perks up at that. “For?”

“A sudden craving.”

Will snorts. “You may.”

Hannibal reaches out a hand slowly, stopping a few inches from Will’s hair, just in case he decides to rip his arm off at the last second. He does not, just looks at Hannibal’s hand with a small, indulging smile. Hannibal’s hand buries inside the mop of brown hair, and Will makes another purring noise, leaning into the hand, his markings glowing softly. The cold, slick strands slip easily between Hannibal’s fingers.

“You’re a surgeon,” Will says, apropos of nothing.

Hannibal’s hand stills in his hair, and Will pushes his head into Hannibal’s palm, urging him to continue his ministrations. Hannibal obliges.

“Am I?” He says after a while.

“You have the hands of a surgeon,” Will says, in lieu of an explanation.

“And how do you know what a surgeon’s hands are like?”

“There was that woman, some time ago—I think she was a surgeon too—who went on a boat trip with her wife. Instead of tanning in the sun, she spent the entire trip watching open heart surgeries on an a giant flat screen. It was very educational.”

“You have human friends?”

Will huffs out a laugh, scooting closer to Hannibal to give him better access to his hair. “No, I just sneaked on their boat and spent some time there sunbathing. I dived back when things got a little heated.”

“Do you do that often?”

“Sometimes. Thankfully, very few people watch HD videos of beating organs to pass the time. Usually they just let the radio or the TV on, musics or the news droning in the background.”

A wave crashes against the shore, covering them both, leaving Hannibal’s clothes completely soaked. Oh, well. Will snickers beside him, shaking the water off his hair, and resting his head on Hannibal’s lap. Hannibal buries both his hands in Will’s hair. Will purrs some more. Hannibal feels the low rumbling through his clothes.

“Is that how you learned about ‘soap operas and crappy blockbusters’?”

“Yeah. I can’t be held responsible for people’s questionable tastes in cinema.”

Another wave sprays freezing water over them. Will does not even seem to realise he has been doused in water. He only flaps the tip of his tail, creating little whirlpools in the water. Hannibal sneezes.

“À tes souhaits.”

“Tu parles français?”

“Juste un peu. You shouldn’t stay here too long. You’re gonna get sick. Look, your clothes are all wet.” Will lifts his head, running a hand up and down the front of Hannibal’s suit.

Hannibal moves one hand to the back of Will’s head, making him lie back down. He slides the hand down to his nape, slowly massaging the muscles there. “Don’t you know? Doctors are immune to every existing sickness. It comes with the diploma.”

Will laughs at this. “Are you really a surgeon though? You have an awful lot of free time. I heard doctors work twenty five hours a day.”

“I used to. I’m a psychiatrist now.”

“Ah. That explains the pretentious babbling.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Keep begging.”

Hannibal has killed for less than that. He still has his scalpel hidden inside his sleeve. Will has been nothing but rude since the start of their conversation. Hannibal is charmed. He slides his hand further down, over Will’s shoulder, tracing the patterns on his skin. He sets his hand between Will’s shoulder blades, slowly massaging up and down, eliciting more content purrs and more shifting in the colours of his markings.

“I’ll leave. In a little while,” Hannibal says, not moving an inch.

“Suit yourself.”

 

* * *

 

Hannibal stills halfway through the rocky path of the shore. Today the weather is foggy again. The temperature dropped drastically since the beginning of the week. He inhales slowly through his nose, exhales through his mouth.

Dogs.

A whole lot of them.

As he gets closer to the water, he gradually sees the pile of dogs lying around on the rocks. Several little heads lift up in his direction, and soon a cacophony of happy yips echo around him. He pauses, ready to walk back to his car and head to his office directly. It is a little past seven but the days keep getting shorter as winter approaches, the sun barely made it past the horizon a few minutes ago.

Then he glimpses a splash of blue amidst the browns, whites, and golds of the pile of fur. That is all it takes to convince him to walk the rest of the slippery path.

Will is there, lying amongst all the dogs, eyes closed, the perfect picture of felicity. Hannibal wants to stay where he is, feeling satisfied by the very sight of him. So he does. Suffering the inquisitive looks of the dogs, he keeps still, drinking in Will’s serene form. The curls swaying lightly with the sea breeze, the slow rising and falling of his chest, the glimmering of his markings and of his tail, the gradients of colours shifting with the slightest movement, the tip of his tail curling and twitching, spraying salt water about.

“You brought some food?” Will opens his eyes, looking at him upside down, not moving from his position amidst the dog pile.

Hannibal’s grip on the bag tightens. He moves closer to Will. The dogs rise when he passes by them, pushing their little snouts into his hands, the bravest giving a few licks to his fingers. He reluctantly pats their heads. Will looks amused and pleased. He sits up, dragging himself closer to where Hannibal sits down. The dogs gather around them, panting, their tails wagging wildly. Two of them circle around Hannibal, brushing against him, while the five others form a new pile around Will, dropping all over his tail.

“Smells good,” Will says, leaning against his shoulder.

Hannibal takes out two containers from the bag, handing one to Will. “A little protein scramble to start the day. Some eggs, some sausage.”

“No more pastries? I liked the ones you brought last time.”

“I’ll bring you more, next time.”

“Please do.”

Hannibal hands Will a fork. He got the hang of it surprisingly quickly, after the fumbling from the first few times Hannibal brought him food.

“Working on a new case?” Will asks, between two mouthfuls of human sausage.

“Yes. Young girls. Abducted all over the country.”

Hannibal starts to list off the details of everything the FBI has found so far. Once he is finished, Will considers everything he said for a minute, before he pipes up, “He is eating them. That’s why you don’t find their bodies.” Will gives the last of his breakfast to the dogs. “Maybe uses the parts he can’t eat for other purposes. I think you humans use skin to make leather, right? Some of use carve knives out of bones.”

Hannibal nods slowly, then asks, “Why do this? Why eat them?”

“That’s how he shows his love. Keeping a piece of them inside of himself.” Will returns the container to the bag and slides down to rest his head on Hannibal’s lap, his tail curling to form a crescent around Hannibal. The dogs move around to curl around Will’s tail again. “He has a daughter. She looks like the other girls. She’ll leave home soon. He doesn’t want to lose her.” Will sighs in content, his eyes closing, when Hannibal’s hands start massaging his head. “But you already knew all that.”

“I like to see your mind at work.”

“I should set consultant fees.”

“Aren’t the pastries payment enough?”

Will hums. “I think that’s what you humans call exploitation. Not very ethical. Not to say illegal.”

Hannibal’s hand slides down to Will’s shoulder, running up and down his arm. The colourful arabesques glimmer each time his hand brushes over them. Will purrs and turns slightly on his front to give him access to his back. Hannibal obliges and strokes slow circles on his back. “You see the world in such a unique way.”

“Well, I see ultraviolet for one,” Will quips up, “The perks of being half fish.”

Hannibal smiles at that. “But there’s so much more than that, isn’t there? Your pure empathy allows you to assume anyone’s point of view. You can see the world through a billion different lenses. What an invaluable gift nature bestowed upon you.”

“I wouldn’t call it a gift. It’s so exhausting sometimes.”

“Does all of your kind possess the same empathy?”

“I wonder. I rarely see them anymore. I used to follow everyone to the deep seas during mating season, but that was a long time ago. So many of us gathered together, I just can’t bear all those emotions swirling around,” Will says, his shoulders sagging as though the very thought sucked all the energy from him, “I fear I might lose myself in there and never come back again.”

“Do you fear you might lose yourself in my presence?”

“No,” Will says, without missing a beat. “Spending time with you isn’t any different than spending time by myself.”

Hannibal does not answer. He did not expect Will’s confession. The words just give too much consistency to whatever has been slowly budding between them for the past few weeks.

The next few minutes are spent in silence, the only sounds audible that of the waves and seagulls, and the soft whining of the dogs, sleeping around them. Hannibal’s hand is still caressing Will’s back slowly, tracing the intricate patterns etched on his skin. They glow softly, lighting up the shroud of fog around them.

 

* * *

 

The scent of decay assaults Hannibal’s nose. He places his bag of food on the ground and takes out his scalpel. He proceeds slowly, blinded by the fog shrouding the shore. A few metres from the edge he finally sees the source of the stench.

There are four bodies lying around on the rocks. All in various states of decay. Will is leaning over one of them, tearing through the ribcage with his claws and his teeth, his face and torso covered in blood. A sickening crack echoes around them when Will finally rips off the last ribs and plunges his hands into the open chest.

“Will?”

Will’s head snap up. “Oh, hello. You’re early today.” And he goes back to tearing the organs out of the body.

Hannibal approaches until he is standing a metre away from Will.

“You want to help? Take a kidney or two?” Will asks, not looking up from his work, “I wouldn’t recommend this liver, it smells really weird.” He holds up the offending organ, gives it a quick sniff, grimaces in distaste, and throws it over his shoulder. A few seagulls land on it and stark pecking at it. He goes back to rummaging through the guts.

“What happened?” Hannibal asks, putting the scalpel back inside his sleeve.

“These guys came to take me. I took care of them.” When most of the organs are removed from the man’s body, and scattered all over the rocks, Will moves on to another body lying a few feet away. “I went a little overboard. Now I have to get rid of the evidence.” He tears off the skin of the chest to reveal the breastbone underneath.

“And how are you going to ‘get rid of the evidence’?”

“I’ll feed the bodies to the sharks.” Will grips one of the ribs, near the junction with the breastbone, and pulls hard, the patterns on his skin lighting up with the effort. It breaks neatly. He repeats the process with the other ribs. “I’m keeping an organ or two to myself, giving a few to the seagulls, and then I’ll ferry the rest to the sharks.” Once the breastbone is detached from the ribs he throws it aside and spreads the ribs one by one to expose the lungs and heart. “I have to do it quickly though, before the dolphins—those fuckers—get there.”

“You like sharks but not dolphins?” Hannibal asks, because clearly that’s the important thing here.

“Yeah, sharks are like sea puppies. They are sweet, and playful, and they like belly rubs. When they’re not hungry.” Will pulls the intestines out of the body. “Dolphins are just evil. Hungry or not.” He rolls the intestines in a ball and throws it at the seagulls. “Could you, uh, open up the others? You were a surgeon, right? Should be easy enough for you. Thanks.”

After another minute of staring at Will’s savage but meticulous work, Hannibal goes to the nearest corpse, takes off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. He kneels down, takes out his scalpel and gets to work. Halfway through he hears a splash and whips his head around. Will is throwing two bodies into the water, before diving in himself. He turns to Hannibal when he emerges again.

“I’ll take these two first. Be right back.” And with this Will grabs the two bodies and disappears under the water.

Hannibal stares at the spot in the waves where Will was moments ago, already missing him.

 

* * *

 

Will is lying on his front across Hannibal’s lap. He is propped up on his elbows, playing around on Hannibal’s tablet. Surprisingly, it took him no more than a few minutes to get the hang of it. Hannibal always thought Will pretty intuitive. The dogs are snoozing around them, mostly sprawled over Will’s tail that sometimes flicks up, sending sea water flying over their little forms.

“You humans constructed an incredibly elaborate and inaccurate mythology around my kind. We don’t spent all our days lazying in lagoons and sinking ships. We are a social species, just like you—although I may not be the best example. Also, why are we exclusively female? It would have been more likely for you guys to come across a merman in the reefs. Mermaids spend all their time in the deep seas.”

“Do mermen sink ships as a pastime?”

“Well, I heard stories of your kind attacking our offspring, mistaking them for tiny sharks or something. I guess some of us took to getting rid of any human who got too close to our nurseries.”

“Nurseries? Your offspring don’t grow up in the deep seas?”

“Some of them do. But the deep seas aren’t very safe for children. So we keep most of them near the coasts until they’re old enough to leave for the deep seas on their own,” he explains. “It’s easier to protect them from humans than from dolphins. Those fuckers,” he adds, hissing under his breath.

Hannibal runs his knuckles on Will’s back, counting the little bumps of his spine. His eyes follow the elegant teal lines of his markings.

“Have you ever had children?”

“No. When I was younger I would occasionally spend some time near the nurseries to keep ships away—I’ve sunk some of my own—but I never raised a child.” Will turns his head to look at Hannibal. “And you? Ever had children?”

“No, but I raised my little sister when we were younger. She taught me a lot about myself.”

Hannibal does not elaborate but Will easily deciphers anything unsaid through his eyes, and the emotions extending to Will. After a while Will asks, “Do you think about having children sometime?”

Hannibal considers this a moment. “Do I?”

When it is clear to Will that he is not getting a proper answer, he turns back to the tablet, opening another tab on a clickbait article about a mermaid sighted near a beach in France. He skims through the article—complete rubbish obviously—and peruses a few pages about mermaids in Scandinavian mythology, pleased to see that for once, they are not depicted as vile creatures whose only purpose is death and destruction. But it is true that so far humans and merfolk have had a rather strained relationship. People rarely write eulogies on their enemies.

“You know those myths about merfolk aren’t complete garbage,” Will amends after skimming through stories of mermaids aimed at children. “Our people is just as diverse as you humans. We have communities and occupations. We also have what you’d call scientists. They do a lot of researches and experiments on marine life and merfolk. In the North Atlantic we have that octopus guy who lives near the coast. He’s like the mad scientist of our community. Does a lot of controversial experiments.”

He lets that sink in. After a while, Hannibal asks, “What are you thinking about?”

Will revels in the spike of hope that sparks in Hannibal, before Hannibal crushes it himself. Will says, “Maybe someday I’ll find a way to get out of this fog and out of this rain. Like that girl with her statue in Copenhagen. With considerably less drama though. You humans have a knack for drama I’ll never understand.”

Hannibal does not speak for a long moment, still running the back of his hand over Will’s spine. Will drops his head between his shoulders when those fingers run up his neck, tangling into the hair at the base of his skull. He closes the tablet and sets it down on the rocks, focusing on the feel of Hannibal’s hand.

And then, just when Will thinks Hannibal dropped the matter and he will not get any answer, Hannibal says, “I’d like to show you Florence.”

Will turns his head to look at Hannibal.

Hannibal whispers, meeting Will’s eyes, “And then I want to show you Paris. And Vienna, and Copenhagen, and Venice, and Prague, and Athens. I want to show you Europe. I’ll take you out of here, out of this rain and out of this fog. I’ll take you anywhere.”

The patterns on Will’s skin glow softly, the gradients shifting in waves of blues. Will props himself up on his arms, and bring his face close to Hannibal, until their foreheads touch. “I’d like that,” he whispers against Hannibal’s lips.

 

* * *

 

Will is picking at the fish bone, trying to catch the last remnants of flesh stuck in between. People are not usually fond of this particular recipe. _Truite saumonée au bleu_ is a recipe by the French for the French. For anyone else it is an acquired taste. Usually.

Will plows through his fish with gusto, with his bare hands, all teeth out, as though it were a dish descended from Heaven. He licks the bones to catch the very last of it, then throws the fish bone in the waves and reaches into the bag to grab another fish. Lather, rinse, repeat.

“You sure enjoy the flesh of your own kind.”

“You’re one to talk,” Will retorts around a mouthful of fish. “I’m only half fish. So it’s not cannibalism. You, on the other hand...” he trails off, side eyeing Hannibal.

“It’s only cannibalism if we’re equals.”

Will snorts. He eats his second fish more slowly than the first, taking his time to appreciate the taste. “I’ve always wondered why cannibalism repulses humans so much.”

“It isn’t an innate revulsion,” Hannibal says, eating his own fish at a much slower pace than Will, and using cutlery, “There are traces of ancient civilisations eating their dead. To honour them. Those civilisations were repulsed by the idea of burying them.”

“Guess it’s just like certain phobias. So common, you’d believe they’re innate.”

“What does your kind do with your dead?”

“Depends. I know that in the North West Pacific they ferry them to the Great Pit and throw them in there. That comes from an ancient belief, something about Gods living in there, eating their remnants and returning them to the Earth.”

Hannibal swallows his bite before asking, “The ‘Great Pit’. Is that the Mariana Trench?”

“Yep that’s the one,” Will says, throwing his second fish bone in the waves, digging in the bag for more. “The communities living near the Coral Sea tear out the organs of their dead and leave them on the Great Barrier Reef to nourish it and the species living in there.” He bites into the flesh of his third fish, chewing slowly. “Near the Pacific Rift, they strip their dead off of their scales and throw the scales in the Rift. Sometimes the bodies too.”

“What about the Atlantic?”

“We feed them to the sharks. We like our sharks in the Atlantic. A long time ago we used to worship them like living gods, much like Hindus venerate cows.” Will throws his fish bone in the sea, and looks into the bag again. He pouts when he does not find any more fish. Hannibal hands him his own container, and Will beams at him. “Thank you.” And he tears through what is left of Hannibal’s fish.

“I’m glad you enjoy my cooking,” Hannibal says, putting away his cutlery.

Will hums around a mouthful before resuming his explanation, “We believed that feeding our dead to the sharks would grant them a second life, that they’d be reborn as baby sharks. Now we don’t worship them or make daily offerings anymore but we still feed them when we can. They’re sweet, they deserve to be loved.”

Hannibal nods his head before asking, “No community eats their dead?”

“We’re not in the habit of eating our dead but I don’t think our kind is as averse to the idea as your kind is. Underwater life is no haven. If we run out of food, we might as well feed off those that don’t make it. It’s better than letting them rot or go to waste.”

Hannibal watches Will finish his fish and throw the bone into the waves. He takes back the container and puts it inside the bag. “If I were to die, would you feed me to the sharks?”

“No. I’d eat you. Keep you inside of me.” Will perfunctorily rinses his hands in the waves, then stretches his arms over his head, sighs in satisfaction when he hears a little pop. He slides down to lie across Hannibal’s lap, slightly on his front, requesting some back rubs. Hannibal obliges and Will purrs softly, the markings glowing under Hannibal’s fingers. “And you? Would you eat me if I died?”

“I would,” Hannibal answers without missing a beat.

 

* * *

 

“You smell different today.”

Hannibal looks down at Will lying on his back across Hannibal’s lap, his back making a beautiful arch over Hannibal’s thighs. Will is licking his fingers to remove the powdered sugar sticking to them. Hannibal’s hands are running up and down his front, from his throat to his the first scales of his tail. He revels at the feel of Will’s Adam’s apple bobbing up and down each time he swallows, at the feel of his ribcage expanding and collapsing steadily with his breaths. He counts each of his ribs, his fingers catching onto each bump. He is thrilled by the small tremors coursing through Will’s body when his hand reaches the sensitive skin of his stomach.

“How different?” Hannibal asks, his hand stilling just over Will’s heart to feel the steady beating under the skin.

“Like… that thing you brought me last time.” Will frowns, unable to remember the word, “That smells like a fish that stayed too long in the sun.”

“Cheese?”

Will tilts his head. “Yeah?” He says, uncertain. “I know that word—that’s fermented milk, right?—but I don’t know if that’s what you brought me.”

“It was,” Hannibal confirms. “That must be because of one of my patients. He has been following me around. He wants to be friends with me,” he explains, his hand resuming its slow exploration.

“Friends? With you? Does he have a dying will?” Will reaches over his head, into the little box of pastries Hannibal brought him.

“He’s not like you, he doesn’t see past the veil.” Hannibal can’t tear his eyes away from Will’s mouth as he bites into a canelé. “His friend wants to be my friend too.”

Will swallows his bite. “Well, aren’t you popular.” A seagull lands near his head and tries to steal a pastry from the box but Will hisses at it, all teeth out, to scare it away.

“I tend to attract a certain type of people.”

“‘A certain type of people’?” Will takes another bite, chewing slowly. “I like that one,” he says, holding up the half eaten French pastry, “What’s inside?”

“Vanilla and rum,” Hannibal supplies. “His friend is the killer of the symphony. The case I’m currently working on.”

Will finishes his bite, then tilts his head back, trying to find another canelé in the box. “The man who killed the trombonist and played his vocal cords? The one who’s been serenading you?” He finds the pastry and takes a little bite, chewing slowly to appreciate the taste.

“That one.”

“If you know he’s the culprit, why aren’t you arresting him?” Will asks, extending his arm for Hannibal to take a bite of the pastry.

“Why, I wonder,” Hannibal says, biting into the canelé.

“Your patients aren’t your guinea pigs, you know? I’d hate to be yours.” Will pops the last bite into his mouth.

The seagull from earlier comes back but instead of landing, it snatches a pastry inside the box on the wing. Will whirls onto his belly, swiping at the bird, only grazing its tail. He sighs and returns to his previous position when the seagull gets out of his eyesight.

“You’d hate to be my patient? Or my guinea pig?” Hannibal brushes Will’s hair out of his eyes in a soothing gesture, then reaches over Will’s head, picking a mendiant inside the box, holding it to Will’s lips.

“Both.” Will bites into the little disk of chocolate, purring appreciatively at the taste. “You play around a lot with their heads, and you don’t even find them interesting. I can’t imagine what you’d do with mine.” He bites the other half of the mendiant, barely missing Hannibal’s fingers.

“No?”

“Well, maybe I can imagine it a little.” Will reaches up, and picks a Gougère out of the box. “You might, I don’t know, hold life threatening information from me? Make me believe I’m a murderer and frame me for your own murders?” He bites into the little ball, and makes a grimaces. “Oh, this one has cheese.” He holds it up for Hannibal who finishes it for him.

“That’s a very specific scenario.”

“But no less probable.”

“No less probable, indeed.” Hannibal reaches into the box, taking another mendiant, holding it to Will’s lips, who bites eagerly into it to wash off the taste of the cheese. “I don’t think so far ahead. I don’t have your imagination.”

“You take the opportunities as they come. And that’s exactly why everything and anything is possible. You’re so unpredictable, even to yourself.” Will opens his mouth to take another bite of the disk of chocolate.

Both of their heads snap up, looking back towards the land. Hannibal throws the pastry back into the box. They both inhale deeply, parsing through the smells around them. The next second, Will is diving back into the sea, and Hannibal jumps to his feet, his scalpel already in his hand.

Hannibal can’t see through the fog but the smell is unmistakable. “Tobias. Fancy meeting you here.”

After a while, Tobias answers, “Dr. Lecter. Fancy meeting _you_ here.” His voice and the distinct smell of his cologne are getting closer. “What are you doing here, so late, in the cold, hidden in the fog?”

“I could ask you the same.” Hannibal can hear the faint sound of his footsteps, splashing on the little puddles of sea water.

“Well, to be honest, I was going to kill you.”

“Of course you were, I’m lean. Lean animals make the toughest gut. What made you stop?”

“I stopped when I followed you one rainy night to this very place. I saw you settle on the edge of the shore, heedless of the pouring rain. And then, when I was about to kill you, I saw someone else pop out of the water.” Tobias’s form appears through the curtain of fog. “Where is it?”

“Do you intend to kill him instead of me?”

An ominous smile tugs at Tobias’s lips. “You know what they say about its kind. Voices descended from heaven, able to enthral the toughest of man with a single note.”

Hannibal tilts his head. “You intend to play his vocal cords? Like you did the trombonist?”

“I’m sure the sounds I’ll draw will—”

Will jumps out of the water, plants his teeth and claws in Tobias and dives back into the water, dragging him down with him. Hannibal kneels close to the shoreline, trying to get a look of what is happening under. He knows Will is more than able to defend himself but he still worries.

After a few minutes Will emerges again. Hannibal takes a step back as Will hoists himself back up on the shore. Then he bends down again to reach into the water and drags the body of Tobias onto the rocks as well. Once the entire body is on the shore, Will lets himself fall backwards, gulping down lungfuls of air. Hannibal crouches beside him, takes his head in his hands, turns it slightly to examine it.

Will bats his hands away. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he says with difficulty, still trying to fill his lungs.

A quick check confirms to Hannibal that Will is not injured. Then he looks at Tobias. His head is bend at an awkward angle and his intestines are hanging through a gap in his stomach. The gash goes from his lowest ribs to his navel. Hannibal can see that a part of the diaphragm was ripped off, probably to reach the heart.

When his breathing is back to a normal pace, Will quips up, “There. He’s arrested now. Take him to the FBI.”

“Did you take the heart?”

“Yeah. I dropped it though. I’ll go look for it later. Now go.”

“Will, I can’t take him to the FBI with a missing heart.”

“Yes, you can. Just tell them he dropped it on the pavement. Now go. And pay me my consultant fees. I deserve an extra for field work.”

Hannibal stares at Will for another minute. He really can’t take the body to the FBI. Maybe he will leave it somewhere far from Baltimore, to be discovered in a few days or weeks. It will not be related to the Ripper with this barbaric removal of the heart. And if they find Will’s prints or DNA they will not be able to identify him. Will props himself up on his arms to sit properly.

Hannibal lifts a hand to run it through Will’s hair, and Will happily leans into it, purring softly. “I’ll need a few things. They’re in my car.”

“Alright, I’ll keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t try to escape. Now stop slacking off and get going.”

 

* * *

 

It is raining today again. It is no more than a drizzle, but so early in the morning, it is enough to keep people away from the shore.

Hannibal sees the dogs huddled close together near the shoreline. They are lying all around Will, seated on the edge, his hands buried in the fur of the dog lying across his lap. The markings on his skin are glimmering brightly, the gradients of colours keep shifting in the delicate patterns.

Hannibal approaches him. When he is but a few centimetres away, he open his mouth to ask what put Will in so radiant a mood, when Will turns around and grabs the front of his suit, tugging harshly to bring him to his knees, and crushes their mouths together.

Hannibal’s eyes widen for a second before he sighs into the kiss, lifting his hands to cup Will’s face, tilting his head to change the angle. Will’s arms wrap around Hannibal’s neck and Hannibal slides his arms around Will’s waist to pull their chests together. Hannibal abruptly breaks the kiss when he feels Will straddle his legs. He looks down, his eyes widening when he sees two legs bracketing his hips.

“Will—”

“Surprise,” Will says, beaming at him.

“When—How…?”

“Remember that octopus dude I told you about? The scientist? His name’s Matthew.” Will sits back to better look at Hannibal’s face. “I went to his place to ask if he could do something to give me legs. He just stared at me for a solid five minutes. That was so awkward.” Will grimaces at the memory. “Then he handed me something to drink—still staring at me with wide eyes—and told me a kiss would make it permanent—the good old ‘true love kiss’ trick, you know? I think he was expecting me to kiss him or something.”

Hannibal’s hands slide from Will’s waist. He squeezes his hips lightly on the way down, then moves to his thighs, stroking up and down the skin, marvelling at the feeling. He traces the delicate patterns that light up under his hands. “Does it mean you’re…?”

“Permanently two-legged, yeah,” Will finishes for him, leaning down to join their mouths in a quick peck. “I think you said something about Florence? And Europe? Let’s go, take me there.”

Hannibal leans down for another kiss, longer, sweeter. He lets his emotions flow freely, hopes Will does not miss a single drop of it. Will purrs into the kiss, tangling his fingers in Hannibal’s hair.

When they part again for much needed air, Will says, “You’ll have to show me how to use these though,” he looks down at his new legs, “I’ve been stranded here for three hours. I can stand but I just keep falling back down when I try to walk.”

Hannibal steals another chaste kiss, before sliding Will off his lap. He takes off his jacket, drapes it over Will’s shoulders and scoops him up. The dogs rise and yip happily around them, rubbing against Hannibal’s legs. Hannibal walks the way back to the land. “Europe, it is. Just give me a few hours to make some preparations.” He will have to refer his patients to someone else and tell Jack that he will be leaving for an indefinite period of time. Maybe forever.

“Can we take the dogs with us?”

At this point, Hannibal cannot refuse Will anything anymore. “We can.”

Will grins and whistles to signal for the dogs to follow them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Next chapter will be their honeymoon in Europe!
> 
> Thank you to [War_Queen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/War_Queen/pseuds/War_Queen) for her [art](https://instagram.com/p/BkMCAMUAl1z/) of mer!Will.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honeymoon :D
> 
>  **Warnings:** Murder. Obscene amount of kissing. I apologize to all the cheese folk, wine lovers, linguists, and biologists in the world.
> 
> Here it is. A few snippets of their honeymoon/killing spree in Europe, all rolled up in one big pile of fluff.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Will?”

No answer. Hannibal puts his keys into the dish near the entrance, and momentarily places the cooler on the floor to shakes his jacket off his shoulders. He goes into the kitchen to place the content of the cooler in the freezer of the pantry.

Will is not in the kitchen emptying their stock of jam. Hannibal does not hear water running, so Will is not in the bath exploding their water bill. He is not in the dining room sunbathing on their dining table either.

Hannibal pushes the door of the study open. All the French windows are flung open, the curtains billowing with the wind, bringing in the scent of brine and algae and the last sun rays before evening settles in.

Will is curled up on the couch in front of the fireplace. Asleep. Naked. The thin blanket—so thin Hannibal can practically see through it—that was on his body fell to the floor, only one of the corners is still covering his middle. The dogs are lying on the floor, around and under the couch. Some of them look up when Hannibal enters, shaking their heads and yawning. Some come up to him to greet him, pushing their snouts into his palms, and he offers them a few pats on the head.

He notices Will’s clothes strewn about the room—a shirt on the floor, trousers half on the desk, a belt hanging off on the back of a chair, underwear nowhere in sight.

Hannibal kneels on the floor near Will’s head. Will is deep in sleep. He has probably been asleep for most of the afternoon, if not most of the day. His slow, quiet breaths come out in little puffs through his slightly parted lips. Hannibal runs a hand in the lush, thick curls tousled in an artful disarray, and Will hums in his sleep, nuzzling his head further into the pillow. Hannibal is incredibly pleased that all the colourful arabesques from his merman form did not disappear with his tail. Right now the gradients shift languidly from deep shades of green to shimmering silvers. Hannibal wants to let him sleep, grab his sketch pad and immortalise this moment. Maybe next time.

He leans forward to press a soft, chaste kiss to Will’s mouth, and leans back to look at Will stir awake, scrunching his nose and pursing his mouth. There is a very special room—or rather an entire gallery—in his mind palace reserved for all of Will’s expressions. And those two seconds just added a dozen more paintings in it.

Will’s eyes flutter open, his eyelashes casting dancing shadows over his cheeks.

“Hello, Will.”

Will looks at him for a long time, emerging from the haze of sleep. A frown mars his features. “Next time you leave for more than a day without telling me beforehand, I rip your eyes right out of their sockets and eat them,” he says, his voice quiet and hoarse, laced with sleep.

Hannibal can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. He leans forward again to kiss the scowl off of Will’s face as an apology. He kisses the tip of his nose, his eyelid, his cheekbone, and finally, the pout on his mouth. Will relaxes and sighs into the kiss, parting his lips, his eyes falling close again. He snakes a hand around Hannibal’s head to pull him closer.

When they part for air, Will reaches for the fallen blanket on the floor and pulls it back over his torso and up to his chin, leaving his legs uncovered. Will likes to roll himself into their sheets and blankets regardless of the heat, the fresh and fluid material reminding him of the ocean waves. The thin material closely matches the shape of his body, leaving nothing for the imagination. Not that there is anything left for Hannibal to imagine.

“Did you have fun? Whatever you did,” Will asks, batting his eyelashes to get rid of the last remnants of sleep.

“I did. I found exactly what I was looking for.” Hannibal leans down again to kiss the crown of his head. “You’ll love tomorrow’s dinner,” he promises with a smile.

The dogs stir and stand, some putting their heads on the couch, wagging their tails, pushing each other to get closer to Will. He greets each of them, rubbing their heads and ears.

“How long did you sleep?”

“All day,” Will yawns, covering his mouth with the blanket. “I went to look for you yesterday. When I came back home I just collapsed here. I walked for six hours straight,” he says proudly, nuzzling his pillow.

“Your legs are gaining strength.” Hannibal moves to sit on the other end of the sofa.

“About time.” Will folds his legs to make room for him. He turns on his back, lifting his arms over his head to stretch, sighing with satisfaction when something pops. “I can’t feel my feet anymore.” He wriggles his toes, wincing when a needle of pain shots through his soles. “Actually, I still do.”

“You should have put a pillow under your feet when you went to sleep.” Hannibal gently pulls Will’s legs to let them rest on his thighs. He takes one of his feet and starts massaging it slowly, rubbing circles into the sole.

“I know. But when I came home I just plopped down here—ah,” Will jolts, gasping softly when Hannibal presses into a particularly sore spot. “Blacked out when my head touched the pillow.”

“But you still had time to strip off your clothes.”

“Well, Mr. Three Piece Suit In August Heat, I’ll have you know that up until now I’ve spent all my life naked in the coldness of the North Atlantic. You’ll excuse me if it takes me some time to adjust to land weather.”

“But of course. Take all the time you need, dearest Will.” Hannibal lifts Will’s leg to kiss the top of his foot.

“I think we’ll have to postpone the trip to Athens. I don’t think I’ll survive the heat.”

Hannibal hums, rubbing Will’s reddened heel and ankle. “Where would you like to go next?” He lowers Will foot and lifts the other one. “Helsinki? Lucerne? Salzburg? Copenhagen?”

“Never seen any. I’ll leave it to you.” Will lets Hannibal massage his sore feet, occasionally letting out a pained little sound, to which Hannibal apologises for with a kiss on his ankle. He absent mindedly strokes the little furry heads popping up on the side of the couch. “I don’t know how you humans can live with gravity everyday.”

“We practice from birth.”

Will huffs out a laugh. “When do human babies start to walk?”

“It depends. But generally somewhere around the one year mark.”

“One year,” Will repeats with a long, tired sigh. “Two months down. Ten more to go.”

“You’re not a human baby. During this year they build up upper body muscles, leg strength, neck strength, they learn head control, coordination, balance, and other crucial skills for walking. All of which you already have. All you need is to build up stamina, and get used to gravity,” Hannibal says, hoping to reassure him. He lowers Will’s feet on his thighs, lets his hands stroke his shins and the colourful patterns on his skin for a moment, before starting to massage his calves. “I think in a few weeks you won’t need a walking cane anymore. In a couple months, you’ll be able to run.”

“Running,” Will says slowly, considering the thought. And then a delighted smile graces his lips. “Hunting,” he says, lifting his head, barely concealing his excitement.

Hannibal nods once, returning his smile. “Hunting.”

Will lies back down with a sigh, eyes closed. “A few weeks. A couple months. That’s a long time before going back to hunting. I hope I won’t loose my touch by then.”

“Perhaps you could hunt underwater in the meantime?”

Will shrugs. “I don’t think I’d be any good at it now. Legs aren’t as powerful as a tail. Not hydrodynamic, no fins to navigate. No fangs, no claws.” He lifts his hands and wiggles his fingers. “The human body isn’t made for underwater hunting. And no amount of muscle memory could make up for that.”

Hannibal gently grabs Will’s legs to pull him closer to him to massage his thighs, eliciting a few chuckles from him as he slides down his pillow. Will readjust his pillow under his head and his blanket over his belly.

“Was underwater life easier than land life?”

Will hums, thinking about his answer. “I wouldn’t say that. It’s hard to compare the two when everything is so different. Just looking at the fauna, underwater conditions gives species more leeway to evolve into colossal dimensions. I mean, the blue whale? How did we get to that?”

“There was a time when land also birthed species of colossal dimension.”

“Dinosaurs?”

Hannibal nods. “Although nature decided to wipe them all out and only spare some of the smallest.”

“A shame. I doubt any era will be as glorious as the time when dinosaurs roamed the earth.”

“And the sea.”

Will flashes him a mischievous smile, showing off his still sharp teeth. “Humans have no idea of what is lurking down there.” Will hums in discomfort as Hannibal moves to a particularly tender spot in his upper thigh, pushing the heels of his palms in the sore muscles. “You’re lucky I’m the one you found, you know? In the deep seas, it isn’t uncommon to come across merfolk twice my size. It’s a miracle humans haven’t been able to spot any of them. Or maybe you did, but mistook them for sharks. Again.”

“Do sharks and merfolk share a common ancestor?”

“Since we all descend from the same unicellular organism, I’d say yes,” Will says, making a vague gesture with his hand. “Merfolk are a strange mix of mammals and cartilaginous fishes. On one hand, our upper body is made of bone, we nurse our young and we can live both in fresh and salt water,” Will lists off, counting each item on his fingers. “But on the other hand,” he counts on his other hand, “our tail is made of cartilage, we have internal fertilisation mechanism, and we use gills to get oxygen from the water rather than going back to the surface to breath.”

Hannibal nods at Will’s explanation. “An oddity of evolution.”

“Like platypuses. And flamingoes,” Will says. “Although, I’m not too sure about the internal fertilisation thing though. I think I heard about some of us laying eggs,” he amends, stroking his chin.

When he is done massaging Will’s legs, Hannibal leaves a kiss on his inner thigh and gets up to gather Will’s clothes. The sun disappeared behind the horizon a few minutes ago, leaving them in the cosy semi darkness of dusk.

Will sits up and reaches for his walking cane hooked on the back of the couch, but before he can take it, Hannibal scoops him up in his arms. The dogs gather around his legs, yipping and rubbing against his pant legs.

Will huffs out a laugh, wrapping his arms around Hannibal’s neck, leaning up for a quick kiss. “Hungry?”

Hannibal carries him up the stairs to their bedroom. “Starving.”

 

* * *

 

Hannibal has his sketch pad balanced on his lap. In the quiet of the room, only the scratch of his pencil against the paper is audible.

He pauses when Will moves one of his legs slowly, ruffling the sheets, entangling it further into the covers. He exhales softly and then silence reigns again. Hannibal leans back in his chair, allowing himself another moment of pure indulgence.

His eyes roam Will’s form lying on his stomach, naked, in their grey and teal sheets complimenting the patterns of skin—currently a soft gradient of dark blues and silvers. His hair lay splayed on his pillow, his dark curls a stark contrast against the pristine white pillow. The first rays of sunlight streaming in through the curtains cascade in streaks across the pale skin of his back, curving in the lovely arch of his spine. One of his legs disappears under the covers, while the other stays over, the blue and silver arabesques casting a soft glow on them.

Hannibal closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, the sweet, musky scent of them still permeating the air. He exhales and looks back down at his sketch pad, resumes his drawing. He lingers on the details of Will’s face, and the light dancing in his hair.

“That was Commendatore Pazzi, right?”

Hannibal’s pencil stops again. He looks up to find Will’s eyes open, although he didn’t move from his position. His gaze is sharp, piercing through the penumbra of the room.

“Yesterday’s liver,” Will says, “that was Commendatore Pazzi. The man the police found dead at the Palazzo Capponi.”

Hannibal does not answer, going back to his sketch instead.

After a while, Will closes his eyes again, yawning, but careful not to move. “I thought you’d kill him in the Uffizi Gallery, since that’s where you first met him. Full circles and all that.”

“I didn’t want the Uffizi to be closed for an investigation. I’d like to take you there, today.”

Will hums softly, sleep catching up to him again. “I have to give some credit to the man. Decades of obsessively chasing after Il Mostro finally paid off. Although he unfortunately cannot reap the fruits of his hard work anymore.”

“You know about Il Mostro?”

“I read about it on a shady blog. It was a little tricky to parse through speculations and the details of the cases but I managed. Your name was written all over the crime scenes. You might as well have signed them.” Will opens his eyes again “How young were you back then?”

“It was more than twenty years ago. They were amongst my first tableaux.”

“That’s why they were so clumsy.”

Hannibal’s eyebrow twitches. Will chuckles, turning on his back. He extends a hand towards him.

Hannibal closes his sketch pad, placing it on the table near the armchair, and stands, hooking his bathrobe to the back of the chair. He sits on the side of the bed and Will reaches for him, pulling him down until their foreheads touch, their noses brushing together.

“We all have to start somewhere, right?” Will amends. “My own first hunts were pretty messy too.”

Hannibal kisses the corner of his mouth. “You first human hunts?”

“Yeah. It was a bunch of poachers who were finning sharks. I tore through the hull of their ship and dragged each of them to the floor—the sea floor—so they suffocate like all the sharks they finned,” Will says, with malicious glee as Hannibal nibbles on his jaw. “Honestly, it was hilarious to watch them struggle to swim back up, and succumbing to deep water blackout.” Will tilts his head back to give Hannibal better access to his throat. “Some started screaming in agony before reaching that point—screaming underwater is a terrible idea, I don’t recommend it—and they died before I could reach the floor—sea floor.”

Will turns his head to the side and Hannibal nuzzle the short hair behind his ear, breathing in deeply. “Did you feed them to the sharks? Or take a bite yourself?”

“Nah, they didn’t look very fresh. I left them on the—uh, sea floor.”

Hannibal brings his hands to Will’s sides, strokes his chest and his stomach, latching onto his waist as Will arches his back. Will brings his hands in Hannibal’s hair, tugging lightly, bringing him down for another kiss.

Will’s stomachs growls loudly, stopping them. Hannibal smiles down at him. “Breakfast?”

Will nods and returns his smile, his cheeks turning a lovely rose colour. “Breakfast.”

 

* * *

 

Will toes his shoes off and slumps further against Hannibal’s side. Hannibal leans down to slip his arm under Will’s knees and lifts him up into his arms. Will wraps his arms around his neck, and lets his head rest on Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal pushes the door of their apartment close with his foot, and carries Will to their living room, careful not to step on any tail as the dogs trot around him to welcome them back. He does not worry about the lock. May God have mercy upon anyone who breaks into their home.

“We should have called a cab.”

Will shakes his head. “I’m fine. My legs don’t hurt, I’m just… a bit tired,” he says, yawning against Hannibal’s shoulder. “I’d rather walk now that I don’t need a cane anymore. Cars are boring.”

“I’m sorry all those terrible blockbusters gave you false hope on the whole experience of riding a car.”

“Everyone should sue Hollywood for false advertising,” Will mumbles sleepily.

“Maybe. Although I thought you liked the sway of cars, so similar to that of a boat and the waves of the sea.”

“That’s about the only good thing about cars.”

Will snuggles closers into Hannibal’s arms, nuzzling his face into the soft fabric of his shirt. When he stifles another yawn into Hannibal’s shoulder, Hannibal changes their destination to go to their bedroom instead. He does not bother to switch the light on, the moonlight streaming in from the windows illuminating their room with a soft glow.

He lays Will on their bed on top of the cover and sits beside him to start unbuttoning Will’s shirt. Will reaches bellow himself to push the covers down, his eyes still closed. He lays limp and pliant, his breathing evening out as Hannibal strips him off his clothes. More than once, Hannibal’s hands linger and trace the deep green and silver patterns on his skin. Once he is done, he pulls the covers over Will’s form and leaves for their en-suite bathroom.

A few minutes afterwards, when he emerges again, he finds Will migrated to Hannibal’s side of the bed, his face buried in his pillow. Hannibal slides in behind him, settling against his back. He pulls Will’s closer against his chest, his nose nuzzling the curls at the base of his neck.

“Thanks for Nola. It’s a lovely boat,” Will whispers, his voice addled with sleep.

Hannibal presses a kiss to his hair. “My pleasure,” he purrs, letting his hands roam the soft skin of Will’s sides and stomach, not to get any sort of reaction or to stir him up, but just to appreciate the feel of their bare skin brushing together.

Will sighs in content under the caresses. “I didn’t realised I missed sharks so much.”

“I thought so. But I knew you wouldn’t like to see sharks in captivity.”

“Hm. An aquarium would have been a terrible idea. I probably would’ve tried to break those glass cages and got us a lot of unwanted attention.” Will yawns, snuggling closer to Hannibal, slotting himself more comfortably in the cradle of his arms. “I think I’ll have to skip tomorrow’s morning run, though. I don’t think I’ll be up before noon.”

“We’ll make it an afternoon stroll then.”

“The dogs will be restless,” Will hums softly. “I’ll let you dress me up and take me to one of those outrageously expensive restaurants if you take the dogs for a walk tomorrow morning.”

“Fair enough. If you don’t complain afterwards for waking up to a cold bed.”

“You’ll have enough time to take them out at least thrice and come back for a nap before I actually wake up.”

“Probably.”

After that Will breath start to slow and even out again until he falls asleep. Hannibal listens to his slow inhales and exhales for a long time afterwards, his hands still tracing slow circles on the patterns of Will’s skin.

 

* * *

 

The dogs lay on the balcony, a couple of them perched on the available chairs, the rest of them huddled together around their legs.

Hannibal looks down at Will as he drops his head on Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal looks at him swirl his wine slowly before bringing the glass to his lips, barely wetting his lips with it. Hannibal wants to kiss the taste of dark cherry, and licorice off his lips, and lick the aftertaste of vanilla off his palate.

Will blinks slowly, his eyes drooping as he admires the incredible view Istanbul offers them under the clear, starry sky. Hannibal is mesmerised by his eyelashes caressing his cheekbones each time his eyes flutter close. It takes him a minute to realise Will is humming softly, so quiet it almost gets lost under the sound of the city night life climbing up to the bubble of warmth of their balcony. He recognises the delicate, languorous prayer of _Casta Diva_.

Hannibal leans down to kiss the crown of his head. “I take it you liked the opera,” he whispers against Will’s soft curls.

Will hums his approval, snuggling closer to Hannibal’s side. “If there’s something humans do right, it’s music.”

“I thought music was merfolk’s speciality. All legends agree that you mastered it to the point that you can use it to control human minds.”

“We also tell our young of a time when our voice alone could enthral humans,” Will says softly, taking a sip of his wine. “Myths and legends passed down from our ancestors millennia ago.”

Hannibal brings his own glass to his mouth, smelling the wine. “So it isn’t real.”

“It might have been. Who knows? It fills our young’s dreams.” Will extends a hand to grab a pastry in the box on the table. He nibbles on the baklava slowly, appreciating the sweet taste of hazelnut and honey. “Doesn’t matter whether it is real. It teaches them the importance of language. Our society evolved the way it did because we can communicate complex meanings,” Will says, looking up at Hannibal, and extending his hand to give him the rest of his pastry. “I guess it’s pretty much the same for humans.”

Hannibal nods, and takes the pastry into his mouth, chewing slowly. “We transcript thoughts and emotions through articulated speech. It is the foundation of our society and its rich, complex structure.”

In the distance, a few cars start honking. Some of the dogs lift their heads, yipping. Will shushes them and they settle down again.

“How do merfolk communicate underwater?”

Will considers his answer for a second. “Whistles. Chirps,” he says, “We use pitch and frequency to convey meaning. It’s why music is such an important part of our culture. If you can sing, then you can speak.”

“Doesn’t it limit the range of meaning you can convey?”

Will shakes his head. “Not at all. Our language is different from yours. For humans, for a given moment and context, one word has a meaning—or several—set in stone. The complexity of a meaning matches the complexity of the structure. For us, the structure isn’t as important as the meaning. Pitch and frequency variations can convey both simple and complex ideas.”

The sound of police sirens and ambulances add themselves to the cacophony of honking and screeching tires. This time all the dogs perk up. Ellie and Harley manage to bark once before Will clicks his tongue sharply and they all settle down again. Hannibal looks at the city spread below then. He can tell where the commotion comes from but the tallest buildings mask his view.

“I think they found your little gift,” Will says, reaching into the box of baklava again, taking out two round pieces. He presses one to Hannibal’s mouth and pops the other in his own mouth.

Hannibal hums around his mouthful. “Structure is how you convey a meaning,” he says after swallowing. “How do you specify a complex meaning without any kind of complex structure?”

“You think like this because humans need blueprints for everything. Which isn’t a bad thing. When everything is neatly arranged in labelled boxes, it facilitates the learning process. But it quickly limits the possibilities for development.”

“Structure isn’t an obstacle to development. We create on existing, sturdy foundations.” Hannibal leans over to take another baklava, this one with pistachio, and brings it to Will’s mouth, who eagerly bites into it, almost taking a piece of Hannibal’s fingers along. “Thousands of new words are created every year.”

“But only a fifth of them are widespread enough to make it into the dictionary. Because those new words will be printed in black and white, you want their meanings to be stable and unanimously agreed upon. But a meaning doesn’t have to be structured to be stable and unanimously agreed upon.”

“No?”

Will hums thoughtfully, bringing his glass to his lips and taking quiet little sips. “Think about art,” he says after a moment. “Sure, you have to acquire a set of principles, learn about technique, colour, balance, composition... But ultimately art is all about meaning. Structure isn’t the defining factor. Once you’ve learned the rules, you can play with them as you please.” Buster, who lays just beside his feet, stand up and rises to put his tiny paws on Will’s thigh, wagging his tail. Will reaches for the plate of home made dog treats on the table and gives Buster one, rubbing his ears as he chew. “Have a hundred artists draw a clam, you’ll end up with a hundred different clams, but clams all the same.”

Finally the police sirens relents, and only the sound of the two ambulances can be heard. Hannibal sighs in content and brings his glass to his mouth, taking a sip of his wine. “That limits the representation to simple concepts.”

“Have a hundred artists represent love, you’ll end up with a hundred different representations of love, but love all the same,” Will says, feeding Max a treat as well when he drops his head on Will’s thigh.

“That’s because we have preconceived ideas and symbolism of love, and recognise their representation.”

“Blueprints and labelled boxes,” Will says, waving his hand dismissively. “Is love a God? Is love a heart? Is love soft colours and faded edges? You may see it as such, someone else may not.”

Eventually, the sound of the ambulances recedes and all that remains are the colourful lights of the police cars flashing amongst the city lights, probably setting up their tape and questioning possible witnesses. Once again the only sound audible is the quiet buzz of the city night life, and the occasional soft whines of the dogs.

“Does that mean merfolk languages are all about interpretation?”

“You could say that.”

“How do you understand each other if you don’t interpret what the other person is saying as the way they want it interpreted?” A gust of wind passes over them, and Hannibal feels Will shiver slightly. He wraps an arm around his shoulder, pressing them closer together. His thumb traces slow circles on Will’s upper arm, over the soft fabric of his shirt. “An artist could draw a clam and I could interpret it as a leave. They could use red for love and I could interpret it as anger,” he says against Will’s hair.

Will turns his head to nuzzle Hannibal’s cheek. “That’s not a problem because this is a conversation. Communication,” he says, “If I see a clam and you see a leave, we’ll know. If you see anger and I see love, we’ll know. Because these are the meanings we’ll convey to each other. The structure you use doesn’t change the meaning of the subject being discussed. Just like the interpretation of an artwork doesn’t change the artwork.” He takes another long sip of his wine, letting it linger on his tongue.

Merfolk culture is as obscure as it is fascinating. Hannibal brings his glass to his mouth, smelling the wine before taking a sip as well. “Merfolk languages seem difficult to both learn and speak.”

“Well. We practice from birth,” Will says, returning Hannibal his words.

Hannibal smiles at him, leaning down for a long, leisurely kiss of black cherries and licorice. Will quietly laughs in the kiss, his shoulders shaking with each huff, as Hannibal finally gets to lap the aftertaste of vanilla on his palate, the taste of honey and hazelnut from the pastries only adding to the sweetness of the kiss. When they part, Will licks his lips and places one last peck on Hannibal’s mouth.

“I’d love to hear you speak in your language,” Hannibal whispers against Will’s lips.

“We don’t speak, we sing. Although it doesn’t sound the same underwater and on land.”

Hannibal leaves a trail of kisses on his jaw, until he can nuzzle the short curls behind his ear. “Will you sing for me then?”

“You’re not afraid you might try to drown yourself in the Bosphorus?” Will teases, looking at Hannibal from under his eyelashes.

“Have some faith in me.”

Will huffs out a laugh. He readjusts himself against Hannibal’s side, inhales slowly, and on the exhale a string of soft, melodious, bell-like sounds resound around them.

 

* * *

 

Will’s breaths come out hard and uneven as he takes in deep gulps of air. He keeps himself upright for a moment, his hands digging into Hannibal’s shoulders, until the buzz of his orgasm wears off and he lets himself fall forward against Hannibal’s chest, both of them releasing a soft _oof_ as their chests collide.

Hannibal wraps his arms around Will tightly, trying to calm his own breathing. He lets his hands run up and down Will’s back, lingering on the points of his shoulder blades, and catching onto the knobs of his spine, tracing the patterns he now knows by heart. He does not have to look to know the beautiful arabesques are now glowing and the gradients are lazily shifting from blues to greens to silvers.

“I’m glad you didn’t loose those beautiful marks,” he says when their heartrates are back to a calmer pace.

“Yeah, I’m glad too. I would’ve missed them a lot,” Wil says, snuggling further into Hannibal’s embrace, his head resting under Hannibal’s chin. “They’re a very important part of our identity.”

“Are they?”

Will hums softly against the skin of Hannibal’s clavicle. “They’re like fingerprints, or maybe skin colour. Depending on the sea we come from, we have different markings of different shapes and colours. Although with the millennia of merging and mixing, it’s difficult to tell exactly where merfolk’s are from, now. But some details and patterns are easily recognisable.”

“What about yours?”

“Oh, mine are a mix of North Atlantic and Celtic Sea.” Will lifts a hand behind himself to grab one of Hannibal’s forearm and slide his hand down to the small of his back. “See the circular patterns there? Very typical of merfolk born in the coldest part of the Atlantic. And so is the mix of blues and greens. Although shades of silver are more common in the Caribbean Sea and the Gulf of Mexico.”

Hannibal lets his fingers run over the circular patterns for a while. “Brightly coloured skin in itself is very typical of poisonous species.”

“Indeed,” Will says.

Hannibal can feel the smile stretching Will’s lips against the skin of his neck. “But your skin isn’t poisonous, is it? Neither is your blood or your saliva. Otherwise I would have died from the first time we met.”

“Nope, not poisonous. Venomous,” Will says, propping himself up on his elbows and resting his head on his hands. “We have a gland under our skin”—he taps the side of his neck with a finger, where it joins his shoulder—“that produces the venom we inject through our retractable claws. Causes severe pain and swelling for days, and then, if not treated, death. It’s ineffective against other merpeople though.”

Hannibal rolls them over, reversing their position. “A venom for hunting prey then,” he says, leaning down for a kiss, sliding his arms around Will’s torso as Will wraps his own arms around Hannibal’s neck.

“Yeah, it was a defence mechanism a long time ago,” Will says, when they part, “when we had more predators than preys, and only caused immediate localised pain. But as we evolved, it became a weapon specifically designed to kill.”

Hannibal moves to Will’s neck, nipping at the spot Will showed him. He laves his tongue over it, trying to feel the a bump or a hardness. When he does not feel any, he inhales deeply instead, parsing through Will’s scent in the hope of catching a whiff of the venom.

Will chuckles under his ministrations. “I don’t know if I still have it. I don’t have claws anymore, nothing to inject the venom.”

“A shame.” And Hannibal bites into the tender skin.

Will releases a high pitched squeal in surprise, that quickly turns into a peal of laughter. He uses his legs to roll them over and be on top again, and sits up, bracketing Hannibal’s waist with his thighs. When Hannibal props himself up on his elbows to kiss him, Will pushes him back down onto the mattress, a grin stretching his lips.

 

* * *

 

The window leading to their balcony is flung open, letting the warmth of late morning sunlight pouring in. The dogs lay in a pile near the window, their soft snoozes silenced by the hustle and bustle of the market just under their window.

Will is sunbathing on the grand table of their spacious dining room, his relaxed form reminiscent of all the times Hannibal saw him lounging on the sharp rocks of the Chesapeake Bay. For once he kept most of his clothes, only getting rid of his belt and socks. He brings a hand to his belly, rubbing the pale skin of his abdomen as the flannel rides up to his navel. Will somewhat managed to develop an addiction to plaid and flannel somewhere between Valletta and Bergen.

Hannibal loves to see him languishing on the polished wood, his fair skin a stark contrast against the dark polished wood. Hannibal would love nothing more than to grab his sketch pad.

But right now his hands are occupied with the plates he is aligning on the half of the table Will left vacant. It is hardly enough to contain the numerous plates of refined dishes, and he has to forsake presentation, and—horror of horrors—make some plates overlap others. But Will looks divinely serene and Hannibal is loathe to order him in one of the seats.

“I don’t know if it’ll bear results as positive as the coffee tasting,” Will pipes up.

“We won’t know until we try,” Hannibal says setting another plate on the table. “You did like the taste of coffee when combined with other flavours.”

“Coffee smells good by itself, it’s only the taste that needed improvement. I’m afraid with cheese we’re starting off on a much lower step,” Will says with a huff of laughter. “Just how many did you make?” he asks, fondness and exasperation lacing his voice.

“Only two more plates.” Hannibal squeezes them in a little gap near the edge of the table where they hang precariously.

When Hannibal is done arranging the table, Will turns and slides up the table to sit closer to the plates. “That’s quite a lot of ways to ferment milk. And even more ways to eat it. I have to admit humans are quite the creative creatures.” He grabs one of plates closest to him, and brings it to his face, giving it a sniff. He scrunches his nose, and places it back gingerly on the other side of the table. “Pass.”

Hannibal takes the plate back and places it back with the others. “Herbed goat cheese and tomato tart, with a thin layer of Dijon mustard.”

“Doesn’t smell good.”

“For later then.” Hannibal pulls a chair for Will, and Will slides down the table to plop down on the cushy chair. Hannibal takes a sit beside him and takes another plate, a small white square plate with two costini in the middle. “Roasted red pepper Boursin cheese, with smashed garlic and fresh herbs.”

Will takes the little plate, lifts it to eye level for inspection. “This one doesn’t smell as strong.” He takes one of the two colourful costini and bites into it, chewing slowly. Hannibal’s eyes are fixed on his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “Hm. Not bad, but… kinda bland.”

A stab to Hannibal’s heart. “Bland,” he repeats, his tone perfectly neutral.

Will smiles a him apologetically and leans up for a quick peck. “Your cooking’s delicious. But the cheese kinda reminds me of that dude we hunted two days ago.” He takes the second baguettes and examines the delicate presentation. “You didn’t put meat in there, right?”

“Dearest Will, you didn’t leave anything from him that I could have used.”

Will huffs a laugh, his cheeks taking on a lovely colour. “I guess I got a little carried away.”

“A little, indeed.” Hannibal opens his mouth when Will brings the costini to his lips. “You tore him apart.”

“Yeah, I forgot I no longer have claws in the heat of the moment. So when I tried to open his ribcage with my hands, and I couldn’t cut through it, I just… used my teeth instead.”

Hannibal leans down to nuzzle Will’s hair, and leave a kiss on the shell of his ear. “I wish I arrived sooner to see it.”

Will turns his head to briefly brush their lips together. “You’ll have to wait for the next homophobic waiter for your tableau.”

“We have time. We’ll do it together.” Hannibal tips Will’s chin up for another longer, sweeter kiss. When they part Will licks his lips and looks down at the plate Hannibal slides towards them, a round wooden plate adorned with colourful flowers and four small sandwiches in the middle.

Will scrunches his nose and visibly recoils. “Oh, please, no. Not cream cheese.”

“Chive sandwiches with edible flowers,” Hannibal announces anyway. “I thought cream cheese would have been easier for you, since you’re rather fond of desserts of all kinds.”

“Yeah. Desserts of all kinds that don’t have cheese.”

“Even with sugar? Fruits? Chocolate? Jam, syrup, honey?” Hannibal says, although Will shakes his head at each suggestion.

“You can add whatever you want in there, nothing’s gonna erase the taste of cream cheese better than actually removing the cream cheese.” Despite his words, Will still takes one of the tiny sandwiches, bringing it closer to his face. “Edible flowers?” He looks at the other sandwiches on the plate, at the colourful flowers on top on them, and the additional flowers artfully scattered on the plate. “They’re beautiful. I don’t want to eat them.”

“Nasturtium, marigold, yucca blossoms,” Hannibal says, pointing at each sandwich. And then he looks pointedly at the one Will holds in his hand. “Sweet William.”

Will elbows him in the ribs, although the wide grin ruins the effect. “You’re terrible.” He bites into the sandwich, humming softly as he chews. After he swallows, he says, “I guess it’s… okay? Not impressed by the cheese, but I like the flowers.” He gives the other half of his sandwich to Hannibal, and plucks the flowers from another sandwich to eat them. He pushes the other flowers around in the plate, to better see them, picking a few colourful blossoms and popping them in his mouth. And then one catches his attention and he lifts it to eye level. “What’s this?”

“A physalis. Sometimes called ground cherry or golden berry.”

“Oh, yeah, I saw something on TV about those once. But the leaves weren’t like this. This one looks like a tiny red raisin in in a lace cage.” Will says, rolling the stem between his fingers slowly to make it spin in the light, his eyes full of wonder.

“Once the physalis is ripe, the leaves thin until they become translucent, revealing the fruit inside.” Hannibal slides an arm around Will’s waist, leans against him until their cheeks brush. “In France they call it _Amour en cage._ ”

Will side eyes him, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “One day, you’re going to choke on your own romanticism, I’m calling it.” He places the physalis back on the plate.

“Not a bad way to die.” Hannibal pecks him on the cheek and lets go of Will’s waist. He pushes the plate towards the ‘eaten dishes’ side of the table, and pulls another one towards them. “Sicilian Caprese salad.”

Will leans down to smell the artful arrangement of mozzarella and tomatoes. “Olive oil. Basil. Golden raisin. Pine nuts, toasted. And… What’s that?”

“Brined capers,” Hannibal supplies.

Will picks a caper and pops it into his mouth, humming as he chews. “Tastes like green olives,” he says after swallowing. He takes the fork and knife Hannibal slides towards him, and takes a bite of the Caprese, chewing slowly. After he swallows, he stares at the plate for a moment. “It’s good.”

A smile breaks out on Hannibal’s face. “Is it?”

“Yeah, mozzarella’s good.” Will takes another bite of the salad. As he chews he offers a bite to Hannibal. Will takes his time to savour this dish, and to finish every last bite of it, stopping short of licking the plate. When he is done, he sighs contentedly. “Alright. I’m giving you the green light for mozzarella. But please use that newly acquired privilege with parsimony.”

Elated, Hannibal takes his hand to kiss the tip of his fingers, then the palm of his hand, then the inside of his wrist, eliciting a peal of laughter. He nuzzles Will’s palm, and Will pulls him in for a long, languorous kiss. Their mouths slide against each other, until Hannibal pries Will’s lips open with his tongue, and Will moans softly, sliding his hands into Hannibal’s and tangling their fingers together. The kiss tastes of salt and milk and olive oil, and Hannibal realises Will is all the sustenance he would ever need.

After a long while, Will breaks the kiss with a gasp, turning his head away for much needed air, and Hannibal latches onto his jaw instead. He nips at Will’s jawline, laps at the underside of his chin, until Will pushes at his shoulders gently with another laugh.

Hannibal turns back to table, pushes the clean plate away and grabs another. That just so happens to be the first one Will took.

“Wow. Okay. Stop,” Will says, holding up his hands. “We just had wonderful moment, please don’t ruin it with… this thing.”

Hannibal reluctantly relents and considers the other dishes. “Maybe tomatoes and herbs aren’t enough to make you appreciate goat cheese.”

“I don’t think anything could make me appreciate goat cheese,” Will says, shaking his head.

Maybe something sweet to go with the strong smell of the cheese. Hannibal selects another plate in the middle of the table. “Caramelized tropea onion with a tepid goat cheese mousse.” This one only has a small amount of goat cheese mousse, only complementing the bright red tropea onion settled on top.

Will leans down for a whiff and promptly turns away, gingerly pushing the plate towards the other side of the table. “I’m sorry, it’s looks beautiful, but no.”

Something even sweeter then. “Honey and pomegranate?” He takes one of the plates farthest from them, a black slate plate with a glass filled with whipped cheese in the middle, topped by pomegranate seeds and drizzled with honey, a few crostini arranged around the glass. “Whipped goat cheese and cream cheese.”

“Doesn’t smell as strong.” Will takes the tiny spoon near the glass to poke at the whipped cheese. “Looks all fluffy.” He puts a bit of cheese on a crostini, and slathers it with a liberal amount of pomegranate seeds and honey, and bites into it. And immediately grimaces. Hannibal winces internally.

Will does not speak, only hands him the rest of his crostini, and chews his bite slowly, swallowing with difficulty. He grabs another piece of bread and eats it to wash away the taste. “Okay, no more goat cheese,” he says, not commenting on the dish, and Hannibal does not asks him anything, lest Will compares it to a rotting corpse or foul algae he ate in the past. He makes a note to prepare some sushi for Will sometime later in the week as an apology.

Hannibal nods, pushes the plate away and grabs one he hopes will bear less catastrophic results. “Poached peaches and baked ricotta, in lemon verbena syrup.” At the centre of the shiny black plate, the slices of peaches are arranged to form a rose on a square of ricotta, surrounded by the clear rosy syrup.

“Right to dessert?”

“The situation called for it.”

Will chuckles, leaning up to briefly run the tip of his nose on Hannibal’s cheek. He leans down to take a whiff of the dish. “It smells good.” He grabs the spoon provided and cuts out a tiny bit of the ricotta with a slice of peach. When he puts it into his mouth, his eyes widen slightly. He takes some time to chew.

Hannibal looks at him expectantly. Will only scoops up a few slices of peach and brings the spoon to Hannibal’s lips. As soon as he takes it in his mouth, Will swoops in for a sweet, sweet kiss.

 

* * *

 

Hannibal puts the three bags on the kitchen island, just as Will walks into the kitchen in boxer briefs and a shirt that clearly is not his. Winston and Zoe are following him closely, running in between—and bumping into—his legs. “Welcome back,” he says, coming up to Hannibal and latching into his shoulders. He lifts his chin, demanding a kiss.

Hannibal happily obliges, wrapping an arm around Will’s waist.

When they part, Will turns to the three bags on the table. He does not open any of them, but a delighted smile graces his lips. “Urchins? I love urchins,” he says, reaching for the bag on the right. And it is indeed the bag containing the urchins. Hannibal leans down to leave a quick kiss on Will’s nose, which makes him scrunch it.

Will reaches inside the bag to take out an urchin. The spikes are still moving slightly. “Can I open them?” he asks, his eyes glinting with excitement.

“I can d—”

“I’ll open them.” Will extracts himself from Hannibal’s hold. He turns to face the kitchen island, turns the urchin over, mouth up, and tries to pry his fingers inside it before stopping abruptly and looking at his fingers. “Oh right. No claws.” He grabs one of the knives in the block on the island and turns the urchin over, mouth down. He places the knife over it, lifts it up, and _whack._ He wriggles the knife to widen the crack, puts the knife aside. Will then grabs the urchin barehanded—the spikes leave little nicks on his hands that promptly heal by themselves—and pulls at the crack to open itin two perfect halves, revealing the bright golden roes inside.

A bit of the sea water stuck inside falls on the counter and Hannibal pushes the bags aside to prevent them from getting wet. He grabs one of the bowls on the counter and pulls it towards Will so he can pour the sea water in it.

Will takes the mouth out and dumps it into the bowl, but does not bother to remove the sea water or rinse the roes and pops one into his mouth.

“Will.”

Will hums appreciatively at the sweet taste. After he swallows, he takes another roe but just before he can eat it, Hannibal grabs his hand. “Will, darling. This is for dinner.”

“There are others in the bag,” he says, tilting his chin towards the bag of urchins. He makes to eat the second roe, but Hannibal stops him again.

“You should rinse them first. They are covered in sea water.”

“That’s how you’re supposed to eat them. Salt water and all. Here, try it.” He tries to press the roe to Hannibal’s lips but Hannibal tilts his head up to avoid it and pushes Will’s hands back down on the table.

“Dearest Will, I know you like your salt, but I assure you, the amount you want to consume could prove to be fatal to a human body.”

Will shrugs. “Too bad for you.” He pops the roe in his mouth. He dips his hands into the urchin again, picking another roe up.

Hannibal wraps his arms around Will, holding him to his chest tightly, trapping his arms and preventing him from eating his third roe. He presses a kiss to Will’s jaw to allay any outburst of indignation. “Beloved. What I’m saying is that although you’ve lived in salt water all your life, you currently have a human body, and you could be harming yourself by dousing all your meals in salt.”

Will raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know that. Even if I have legs, my metabolism could still be able to proceed considerable amounts of salt, just like my skin is still able to knit itself back together.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

Will snorts. “Since when do you play it safe?”

“Since I decided to elope with you.”

Will laughs at that, clear and melodious. Hannibal’s hold tightens on him, a smile tugging at his lips. Will turns his head for a kiss, salty and briny with a touch of sweetness. “Dinner better be the best urchin I ever ate,” Will says against his lips when they part for air.

“It shall be.” Hannibal releases him and takes his place on the other side of the counter. He ties his apron around his waist, rolls up his sleeves.

Will empties the urchin inside the bowl. “What are you cooking?” He takes the bowl to the sink to rinse the roes.

“ _Tonnarelli alle uova di riccio_.” Hannibal starts rummaging through the cupboards, gathering the ingredients and tools on the kitchen island to make the pasta.

“I thought we were too late for the sea urchin festival?”

“But it’s never too late to appreciate it.”

Once the urchin roes are rinsed, Will brings the bowl back on the counter. He pops one into his mouth, chewing slowly, and presses another to Hannibal’s mouth, smiling when this time Hannibal accepts it. He splits the last roe in two and gives one half to each dog.

Will rounds the kitchen island to grab the last bag and inspect its content. He takes a pepper out, and brings it closer to his face to inspect it. “Cayenne?”

“Peperoncino.” Hannibal pours the flour into a mound on the _spianatoia_ , making a _fontana_ in the middle for the eggs.

Will gives the pepper a sniff, then bites into it. He grimaces, sticking his tongue out. “I don’t like it,” he concludes, gingerly placing the half eaten pepper back into the bag.

“It tastes better with other ingredients.”

Will reaches inside the bag again. “Is that… cilantro?” Will frowns, takes the bunch out of the bag and brings one leave to his nose. “Smells like parsley. Although much stronger than usual.” He rolls the leave between his fingers, bends down to let the dogs have a sniff. They promptly recoil at the strong smell, making Will chuckle.

“This is Italian parsley.”

“I like it.” Will chews on the leave, placing the bunch of parsley on the counter.

“Tastes better with other ingredients too.”

Will goes to sit on the plushy armchair in the corner to watch Hannibal work the dough. He brings his legs to his chest, curling against the armrest, while the dogs lie under it. “Spill. What do you want?”

“Why do you think I want something?”

“You’re bribing me with urchins,” he says matter of factly, leaning sideways until his head falls on the armrest. “Or maybe you’re apologising for something?” When Hannibal does not answer him, Will only stares at him, half sprawled on the armrest. After a while seems to find what he was looking for and a smile tugs at his lips. “You are.”

Hannibal is again left wondering what gave him away. He does not look up from his work, kneading the pasta dough until it reaches the right consistency. “It’s unfortunate that we had to leave France so abruptly.”

“The little we saw was lovely,” Will says. “La Rochelle was my favourite,” he adds fondly.

Hannibal lets the pasta rest, and glances at the clock attached over the door leading to the dining room. Thirty minutes to wait. “French cuisine is so rich, I would have loved to show you more of it.”

“It’s not like we can never go back. And you can cook French dishes whenever you want.”

“It would have been the perfect occasion to see the extent of your sense of smell.”

“Again, it’s not like you cannot do that whenever and wherever you want.” Will tilts his head to the spice racks on the other side of the kitchen, and the many unlabelled vials. “The top rack, from right to left, saffron, sumac, machalepi, star anis, that thing that smells like thyme but smells stronger—”

“Ajwain.”

“—curry, anardana, saigon cinnamon.”

A smile stretches Hannibal’s lips as he rinses his hands and dries them on a cloth, before ducking to dig into a cupboard. He takes out several bottles and aligns them on the kitchen island. He looks at Will expectantly. Will tilts his head, staring at the unlabelled bottles thoughtfully. After a while, he frowns and stands again, coming to stand beside Hannibal.

He opens the first bottle on the right, and takes a whiff. “Olive oil.” He closes the bottle again, and open the one next to it. “Sunflower oil.” He does the same for the next bottles. “Canola, soybean—What the—what’s that, that’s not vegetable oil,” he says while taking several whiffs from the same bottle, his brow furrowed.

“Animal oil.”

Will raises an eyebrow, sending a puzzled look at the bottle. “How the fuck do you make oil out of humans? No, no, rhetoric question,” he adds quickly when Hannibal opens his mouth to answer. “That smells terrible don’t you dare use it with anything we eat,” he says pushing the bottle forward and away from them. Then he resumes his smelling of the other bottles. “Peanut, argan, sesame—oh, Jesus Christ, I love sesame oil.” He tips his head back, ready to drink the oil right from the bottle.

Hannibal catches the bottle just in time, taking it from Will’s hand and leaning down for a kiss to replace the oil and silence any protest. “It also tastes batter with other ingredients,” he says against Will’s lips.

“Tastes fantastic on its own too,” Will retorts curtly, although he steals another quick peck.

“You have quite the sense of smell. Another similarity with sharks.”

“Yeah, you have to, when living underwater. Since it’s so dark down there, you either have to produce light on your own, or rely on your sense of smell to know what you are hunting and putting in your mouth,” Will says, shrugging. “First option isn’t available to me,” he says running one of his hands on his arm, over the currently silver and teal patterns on his skin. “Although it doesn’t necessarily extend to other merfolk. Many of us are born with bioluminescent markings. Usually communities in the Central Pacific, or tropical waters in general. Some of those living near the Mariana Trench have straight up bioluminescent skin.”

Hannibal’s arms circle Will’s waist. “But your skin does glow sometimes,” he says, one of his hands sliding under his shirt to stroke the patterns on his skin. “You did say that you had some traits typical of Caribbean Sea and Gulf of Mexico natives.”

Will offers him a half smile. “True, but mine is really faint. If you want I’ll show you some lagoons I used to frequent in the Caribbean Sea, we might happen upon one of my past acquaintances. It’s really beautiful.”

“Let’s hope they recognise you and don’t try to drown us.”

“What, you still believe that whole sinking ship as a pastime thing?”

“You did admit to doing it yourself.”

“Yeah, to protect our nurseries from human ships,” Will says with a peal of laughter. “Don’t worry. If worst comes to worst, your Knight in shining armour will swoop in to save you.”

 

* * *

 

Will looks blissed out by the waves gently lapping at their bare feet, the water reaching his ankles each time it comes back up. He holds his shoes in his hands, his pant legs rolled up to his knees, exposing the delicate patterns of his skin glowing in deep gradients of blues and greens.

They are the only ones on the beach, minus the dogs running happily in the waves. It is still too early for anyone to be up, a few sun rays barely breaking past the horizon. Hannibal looks as Will closes his eyes and inhales deeply, taking in the sweet, comforting scent of the Aegean sea.

“Do you miss life underwater?”

“Do you miss Baltimore?”

“Baltimore is but a ticket plane away. Going back to your life underwater won’t be as simple.”

Will shrugs. “I can still go to Matthew if I want my tail back.”

“Do you want your tail back?”

“I think you miss my tail more than I do.”

“Which means you do miss it.”

Will takes a deep breath. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss my old life. But I think I’m just sad that I couldn’t show you underwater life,” he says, his voice barely audible over the sound of the roiling waves. “It seems unfair. I’ve learned so much about the human world, but you know almost nothing of mine.”

“You do tell me a lot about the merfolk world.”

“It’s only the tip of the iceberg. You can only have a good idea of it once you’ve experienced it. Our world is so rich, a million words could never do it justice.” Will pauses. For a moment, he loses himself in his own thought, before resurfacing back to Hannibal. “Maybe I could go see Matthew again.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea. He probably would take any chance he gets to get rid of me.”

Will snorts, sending him an amused smile. “Pettiness isn’t as widespread in merfolk as it is in humans. However fierce we may be, we know how to lose graciously. Usually.”

Hannibal takes a step closer, sliding his hand in Will’s and bringing it to his lips to leave a kiss on his knuckles.

Will squeezes his hand, leaning in to nuzzle Hannibal’s jaw. “One day, I’ll show you my world.” He looks back at the dogs running in the waves, and at the horizon where the sun start to climb over the waves, his eyes glinting with the same wonder as the first day Hannibal took him out of the Chesapeake Bay, out of the rain and the out of the fog. “But for now, this life, the both of us, this is enough.”

Hannibal bites the inside of his cheek. “Will.”

Will turns inquisitive eyes at him. Hannibal reaches inside his pocket for a small black velvet box.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


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